Banana Clip
by metacognitive
Summary: I got the usual for Christmas, thanks for asking. Mostly more librarian clothes [...] I swear I have enough for a week straight now without having to wear one twice. One of them's in that pink you like, though, so maybe you won't make too much fun of me—not that I don't love your two-bits (I know you think I'm funny). (Or, Marcia writes Two-Bit, half a world away.)


_general warnings for referenced sexual content and vietnam as a specter. formatting is wonky bc ff doesn't have strike through but if you'd like to see how i meant it to look, pls check out it out at ao3 under the username laratoncita :) title from the song of the same name by miguel, and as always, i own nothing._

* * *

August 1971

Two-Bit,

Gosh but that looks awful funny, written out like it is. I know it's your name and all, and I can't imagine calling you Keith the way I have to on the envelope, but seeing it all spelled out just reminds me that you're a real card. I'm glad you asked me to write you.

I'm also real glad we ran into each other when we did, those two weeks you were still in town before they shipped you out. I hope you get this and remember me the way I looked that first day, because I put in a lotta effort for whatever reason, waking up that morning and thinking that I needed to look best as I could. Maybe that was fate, knowing I was going to run into the funniest guy in town. I know you got a reputation with blondes but we both know you got a real thing for us brunettes, and the sooner you admit it the better things'll get between you and me (not that they're bad) (but I'll send a nice picture if you do). In case I didn't, thanks for taking me out dancing those couple of times and for always offering to buy me a drink, even if we both knew that wasn't going to change the way our nights went. I remember those best. Do you?

I'm working at the library now, believe it or not. I know I mentioned it a couple of times, those couple _(dates)_ times we went out together, but I also don't expect you to have remembered it since we had some other pressing issues to deal with at the time. I figured I'd tell you anyway. My mother's asking me when she can introduce me to some of her friend's (single) sons and I don't know how to tell her I'm just not interested. _(at least not in any of them)_ Anyway it's a nice little joint and the kids are real fun and I think, once you get back, you'll get a kick outta me sitting there dolled up like a librarian making funny voices for the little ones that come in for reading time. I think you'd have fun.

Anyway, don't take too long to write back, Two-Bit, you can't use an excuse like losing my number again _(I still don't believe you)_ and I wanna hear back as soon as I can, alright? There's a picture in it for you if you do, even if it's just one line telling me I'm right. I already know I am.

_(Love)_

Marcia

* * *

September 1971

Two-Bit,

Now I didn't say I didn't like the name Keith, I just said it's hard to think of you as Keith when I've only known you as Two-Bit, though I'm not sure your unit calling you Maty is much better. And you don't gotta be modest, everyone who knows you thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread and I already know me telling you I think you're funny is going to give you a big(ger) head, Lord knows you don't need my approval.

You're a real piece of work, you know that? You know I know you remember that first day we ran into each other just perfectly, you don't need me to go over all the details again (not to say I don't do that all on my own anyway) and besides, you haven't admitted you like brunettes best so I can't even reward you. Don't ask me what the punishment is. I gotta say I don't know whether to be jealous about that thing you can do, you know, the vibrating thing, I've never _(come as hard as I have with you)_ felt that before and can't even bring myself to get mad about where you learned it because I appreciate the experience so much. Bless the girl who taught you, I guess. _(I hope you're not writing her too)_ Anyway that's all you're getting outta me, a girl likes being told she's right and I'm going to hold you to that standard, too. I can whip you into shape just fine by myself, you know, you don't gotta rely on the army for all of that.

I'm glad your group hasn't seen too much action yet. I hope it's so boring you're about losing your mind. Did you like the ocean? My nana's in New Jersey and the Atlantic is nice enough, but I hear the California coast is _(to die for)_ just about the prettiest thing around. I'd love to get out there one day, maybe do a road trip and visit all those places in America that everyone's always raving about. I know you said no one expected _(someone like)_ you to get outta Tulsa, let alone to the other side of the world, but I hope seeing the beach and water where you're stationed wasn't too bad. _(I hope it makes up for everything else even if I know it doesn't.)_ Work's just fine on my end, and no, I don't think I'll tell my mother that all the boys she likes aren't man enough for me or offer to make you an honest man instead _(at least not yet)_. According to my mother I'm a virgin, and I'm not about to break her heart (I can imagine you laughing at this now and want to tell you I am too). You can tell her yourself once you're back.

Stay safe and write soon.

Marcia

* * *

October 1971

Two-Bit,

Don't go unfolding the slip of paper in here with your unit around, alright? I appreciate your confessing you like us brown-haired mousy girls as much as blondes even if the correct answer was 'more' and it took me forever to figure out what kind of picture you'd like best. One of them is just me at work, you know, in case you wanted to know how much of a square I've become since making an honest living. Maybe once you get back I'll learn how to have fun again.

Since you said you wanted to hear all about my boring job I figured I'd tell you something not so boring that came up, because as much fun as I have reading to babies that don't mean you want pages and pages of that. I don't even think I could write about nothing but babies all day! I like them well enough but I can't say that that'd make a good letter. Anyway, on Friday I was in all day like I usually am (and which my mother hates, because then I come home tired and just want to spend the weekend resting and taking care of the little things I didn't get to during the week and, Two-Bit, she really is trying to marry me off! I'm not sure how to feel about that) and guess who came in!

Maybe that's an unfair question—do you remember Cherry? She was with us the night we met and I know she talked to you a couple of times after (_Bob_) that. She was at UT-Austin for a while and finished up there and is working as a nurse over at Mercy now, even though her folks are also apparently trying to find her a good husband. _(I think we both always thought we'd have found husbands by now but that was before and)_ She's doing alright, she says, and is living with an old friend who stayed around but went into nursing, too. Like I said when we went out, we haven't spoken in a long time and it was an odd feeling to see her in person. She's as pretty as ever (I know you don't like redheads, is it because you're one, too?) but she looks real run down _(like she never got over what happened to Bob)_ and I can't imagine how busy it gets in the hospital. She works in the emergency unit—any names I should tell her to look out for? I know you like things a little rough sometimes (and I do too).

That was probably the most surprising thing that's happened to me all week which makes me feel sorta happy and sad all at once. I don't think I ever imagined my life would be terribly exciting but I think I might've thought it would just be a little more. Maybe I'll start saving up for a little vacation, go somewhere nice and calm and pretty. You're back in ten months, right? That's more than enough time for me to get a little (_nest_ _egg_) plan ready for the two of us. I know you'll say something about how I should ask you or how you don't want me paying for anything (you bought us an awful lotta drinks that just went to waste, you know) but let's call it a late birthday present, alright? I like the thought of the two of us on the road (_or_ _in_ _bed_ _or a __car_ _or) _and it could be fun. You're a lot of fun.

I don't care what you write me as long as you do, alright? I don't care. Tell me anything.

Marcia

* * *

November 1971

Two-Bit,

I know I say you're a funny guy a lot but this really isn't all that funny. It's been over a month since I sent my last letter and I know it takes a week or two for our letters to get to each other. I guess I got used to the three or four weeks it takes and it's been six, now, and I'm just _(losing it)_ a little worried. I know you haven't lost my address so don't try to lie to me. Please write me back soon.

I want to just write this like it's a normal letter but I can't come up with any funny quips you might've made about my last letter and pretend like I'm answering them. Plus, maybe I'm waiting on some compliments. I thought you'd like that shade of blue I wore in one of the pictures but _(honestly you could tell me I looked awful and I'd probably feel relieved)_ maybe your favorite color is red and I just made a fool of myself. At least you taught me how to laugh at myself back in August, did I think you for that? Let me thank you now instead. Thanks for being a good date and good in the sack and the best kind of guy there is. _(I think I'm falling in love with)_

It's getting cold out here. Do you miss it? I dread the thought of it getting any colder, with all the opening and shutting of doors at the library but I like the thought of _(you home for it)_ my nana's cooking, since she'll be in town this year. I don't know what else to write you, I don't know what you'd like to know. Please write soon.

All my love,

Marcia

* * *

December 1971

Merry Christmas!

I'm so mad to think you're injured and yet you can't come home yet. I know broken arms can heal but it's _(a warzone)_ the principle of the thing, you know? I'm so so glad you're okay, Keith. Tell your buddy Ritchie thank you for writing the last letter for you and that I owe him a Sunday roast. I'll call for my nana's recipe and whip you two up something delicious to celebrate your homecoming. You'll be home soon enough.

What is Japan like? I think I might have seen some photos from a history book but that was only when they talked about the Second World War and, you know, that's an ugly thing to remember. I hope you're getting out a little bit and enjoying it there. I know you haven't written anything about what it's like out in Vietnam, but I just want to remind you that I'm here to listen (well, read) anything you want to send me. I know I won't understand and I know you aren't going to tell me about it at the end of the day but I hope you know that I'm here for you.

Anyway, I'm just about losing my mind over the thought of those pictures of me disappearing into the jungle. I really can't stand it. Since you managed to save the nice one of me dressed like a librarian (of course I look like one, that's what I am, Mathews!) I guess I can send you these newer ones, and I'm even wearing pink like you recommended. _(How's it compare to what you saw in the summer?)_ Please try not to spread these around Japan, I don't think my heart can take knowing there are men in three whole countries who know what I look like with the lights off. _(I'm glad it was just those pictures you lost)_ Don't lie about losing these, though, because I'm not sending you more pictures in the next letter I send out. A friend of mine from OSU actually learned how to develop photos, so you don't gotta worry about some stranger seeing me doing things that you'd appreciate best. I mean, maybe Mel doesn't need to know, either, but in her defense I've taken some nice ones of her, too. Don't ask to see them!

For Christmas we're having a bunch of family from Jersey come in, which means my nana will make all my favorite desserts like she always does and the best pot roast in the world. She learned it from my grandpa's mother, on account of she's Italian and she's never liked beef much, besides. I'm going to get those recipes for us and make you a good dinner once you're back, alright? Keep up your strength 'til then because I'm fixing to make it my duty to take care of you when you get back like I wish I could be doing right now. Have they done anything nice for you all, since you're there over the holidays? (_I hope you can at least pretend it's)_

Two-Bit, I gotta be honest with you: I was scared something awful after not hearing from you for so long. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you—it breaks my heart just to think of you in that hospital right now, waiting for your arm to heal. _(I wish you could come home)_

I mean it.

Marcia

* * *

January 1972

Two-Bit,

I got the usual for Christmas, thanks for asking. Mostly more librarian clothes, which I'm sure you'll laugh at in person when you get back and it's August and I'm still running around in a turtleneck. I swear I have enough for a week straight now without having to wear one twice. One of them's in that pink you like, though, so maybe you won't make too much fun of me—not that I don't love your two-bits (I know you think I'm funny).

You said your arm should be better by now, and I just wanted to check in and make sure it was. Crazy to think if it had been a little bit worse you might've been sent back. _(It's bullshit)_ Thanks again to Ritchie for helping out! Let the man know he's angel, Two-Bit, and use my exact words, alright? I hope you're feeling well-rested. I should have asked in my last letter, but I hope they're feeding you boys right. There's nothing like a homecooked meal (_I can make you one every day for the rest of our lives if that's what you want)_ and I can only imagine what sorts of rations they had you on while you were out there. Please let me know when you'll be heading back, too—I know there's nothing I can do but I'd like to know.

You don't have to keep apologizing for not letting me know sooner about the arm, you know? I shouldn't have gone crazy like that. I should be saying sorry, for making you worry when all you should be worrying about is yourself. Is there anything I can send? _(Anyone I should call for you?)_

Here's a fun update for the both of us to laugh at: my mother tried setting me up with some young whipper-snapper, the son of one of my father's old college friends. This kid was such a bore! Finishing up at Georgetown, business degree, all he wanted to talk about was what kind of money I was inheriting. Inheriting? My dad went to a good college, sure, but he's a professor, not a millionaire. Sheesh. I got it good, I know, what with him paying for my school and letting me come back home after I finished but _(I can't wait to get out of here. Do you think you would want to)_ there's more to a girl than her bank account. Like what I look like naked, you know? _(Do you think of that sometimes?)_ Anyway, I accidentally spilled half my glass of red wine on him and honestly, that cashmere sweater he was in was hideous anyway, so I did the guy a favor. You're still the funniest guy I know.

Be good. Stay safe.

All my love,

Marcia

* * *

February 1972

Two-Bit,

You make me feel absolutely crazy. I don't write what I don't mean. Yeah I cross out some stuff sometimes, because I make a mistake or I say too much or, I don't know, sometimes I just do. But I write what I mean.

I thought you were dead. Hand to God Keith I thought you were dead and I was only ever going to find out too late, on account of I don't know your family or friends, well, besides that one I met years ago, Ponyboy, who came into the library over the holidays and didn't want to be bothered when I asked about you. He doesn't like me much, it seems like, which is okay.

Anyway what I'm saying is that I thought I was never going to see you again. Or hear your voice _(or touch you or taste you or feel you inside me)_ and I really thought I was going to lose it, alright, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't take two months of nothing super well. I know it makes me selfish. So that's why I wrote what I wrote and that's why I'm writing what I'm writing and here's God's honest truth, Mathews, so bear with me a moment while I try to make it make sense and I'm sorry if you don't like what you read.

You're the only person in the world who's ever talked to me like I had something worth saying. Not one of the handful (less than a handful, two or three, maybe) boyfriends I've had have made me feel like I could say whatever I wanted and they'd still want to hear it. You and I talked for a few hours every day we had with each other and I could have kept talking to you all night and maybe if I had everything would be different but we know how that ends. You're the funniest guy I know but you're also the kindest. I don't care what your reputation used to be, so long as you don't care that I'm from the West side.

Two-Bit—Keith—whatever name you prefer—listen. Or read, whichever works. I love you, alright? I love you. Two weeks together wasn't nearly enough. And maybe it shouldn't be enough for me to know I love you but I do, alright? I do. Not just for how you make me feel but who you are. Caring, and selfless, and good, more than anything else. I don't care what you've seen. Or what you've done, or what you're going to have to keep doing because August is still six months away. I'm counting the days 'til you're back even if you don't want me.

But please don't stop writing me, _(I think I'll just die if you don't)_ alright? Please.

All my love,

Marcia

* * *

March 1972

Keith,

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

My hand's cramping up but there. I love you. I'll keep saying it, every day, for as long as you need me to, okay? I love you, too. And we're going to get through the next five months just fine.

I know you like me updating you on work and life here in Tulsa and any other old boring thing I take for granted but I'm just stuck on you saying you love me too. I feel like some girl who's never heard the words before but this is the only time they really matter. I got the best guy in all of Tulsa, the best guy in all of the US of A, maybe. Once you're back I'm going to parade you around like I won first prize at the county fair, 'cept this feels about ten times better. We're going to drive my mother crazy once you get back. I can't wait.

I know things must be crazy over there but I just want to remind you that I'm here. And now that you've got me you're not about to get rid of me easily. And maybe it's bad of me to admit, but a lot of times I think about that first night we met, the way we sat together for so long at the drive-in and how close you walked next to me. _(before Bob and Randy)_ I know you didn't really lose my number, but I get it. I get why you never called me, and I've never been mad about it. Sad, maybe, or disappointed. But I got you now. That's even better.

Remember that first night, when we ran into each other your second night back from training, 'cause I wasn't looking where I was going? How I started to fall and you caught me like it was nothing, like it was something out of a romance novel. It was real romantic. I never told you, but now you know. And then we went for drinks and one thing went to another and _(nobody fills me up like you do, I'll never want another man in my life if it isn't you)_ then the next morning you asked if we could do it all again? I'm glad we did. _(What I liked most is how you touched my face or the way you held my hand. Nobody's touched me like that before.)_

I love you. Write soon.

Marcia

* * *

April 1972

Two-Bit,

Well, now I know not to call you Keith with any kind of regularity. Now I know to save it for when I'm mad at you—I think me and your ma will get along just fine. How's she holding up? Your sister's finishing up at Will Rogers this year, isn't she? Is she staying in town or heading to school? I know your family doesn't know me but if she has any questions, I can always help her out.

I don't see why it matters that so much of us is wrapped up in the war. I mean, I know it's a little ugly, to think of _(everything)_ it touching us but at the end of the day it doesn't matter. I'm telling you, I think it was fate. You've seen my librarian get-up, you know I don't get dressed up for work things, and I had an interview that morning we ran into each other. There's no reason I needed that short of a skirt or that red of a lipstick, and honestly I can't imagine why I thought to wear it that day at all. The universe knew we'd find each other, and it thought to give me a leg up _(before and after)_ which I'm sure you appreciate. _(It worked out real well, with how easy it got you inside me, after all.)_

Relatedly, my mother is still tossing me to the fishes meaning I'm trying to give a bunch of rubbery men the run around—you have no idea how hard it is to get rid of a man, or do you? _(I need you to come back and tell them to shove it.)_ She doesn't seem to understand that I meant it when I said I wasn't interested in anyone, though maybe she'd understand it better if I added except you to it. I don't think it matters what my parents will think when you get back. My dad's not too worried about me running around with boys and my mother's always been a little old fashioned—you know, girls should be like this and not that, should want marriage and babies and what's the point of sending me to school if I'm going to marry and raise kids, anyway?

I like my job a lot. The kids really like me, I think, and I can see myself staying here for a long time. That doesn't mean we have to stay in Tulsa forever, though. If you want to move to Alaska once you're back then just give me a few hours to pack up my winter clothes. (_Wherever you go I'll follow)_ What do you think? Ready to get to your old haunts again?

I'm still counting down the days. I love you.

Marcia

Ps. I'm sorry about Ritchie.

* * *

May 1972

Two-Bit,

You should give me some ideas for a birthday present. (I know you're going to ask for pictures, so pick something else.) When you get back, we should do something fun, even if it is two months late. I know you said Ponyboy was probably just doing his own thing back in December and not to worry about it, so maybe I could meet a couple of your friends? We could do a potluck, maybe. My place is big enough for however many people you might want to bring. I promise my mother won't bite _(but the shock of it might drive her half as crazy as me)_ and my brother'll probably think you're a riot.

I still think you're a hoot, after all. Thanks for that limerick, by the way, _(and yes I can still do that thing with my tongue, and if you think I'll be out of practice then we can just try it until I get it right)_ I pinned it up in my room I liked it so much. I've never been good at poetry or writing or anything like that. I'm sure someone else could write you prettier letters _(but I can't imagine them loving you as much as I do, even if it feels every day like I love you more)_ but none of them are half as funny as me. My wordplay's out of sorts lately, I know, but my best sparring partner's on the other side of the world, so can you blame a girl? We're going to drive everyone crazy once we're in a room together, though maybe first we'll tend to some other concerns first, before we start entertaining our ragtag bunch of friends.

I did see Cherry recently, actually, and while I don't think we'll be friends again _(if that's even what we were in the first place)_ I think it's good to know someone who grew up on the same side of town and saw the fallout. That is, I think it reminds us both that there are things out there bigger than the two of us. There's a whole world out there and even if it doesn't feel like it, it's affecting us a thousand different ways. _(Who could have imagined the war would have)_

Anyway, my library friends are usually the people I hang out with. I guess it's a little odd, because the next youngest librarian is in her thirties. She's only part-time, on account of she's got two kids in school she's got to look after once they're done with classes for the day, and the other two are in their forties and fifties, but we got along real well. I think they're real groovy (it's a fun word, can you believe everyone's saying it now?). I know you don't want me worrying about you but be safe out there, alright? _(I know drinking helps you out a little while you're out there but)_ I just want to make sure you get through the next few months in one piece. And you will, because I said so. Got it?

I love you.

Marcia

* * *

June 1972

Happy birthday!

Twenty-four has never looked so good (I'm assuming; I know you're handsome as ever, but I wish we'd gotten a few pictures taken at a photobooth or something, 'cause I sure do miss that face of yours) and I hope when you read this it's while you're on R&R on the beach. _(or thinking of me anyway)_ Please try not to lose these photos to the jungle again, though if you do I guess it's good to know I'm showing off my best assets (gotcha!). I might be a stuffy old librarian during the day but I'd like to think I'm a good example of the hazards of judging a book by its cover. I miss you.

Your sister came by to see me at the library, and I'm almost scared to ask what you've told her about me. Her hair is so red! I love it, but she just sighed and rolled her eyes (kindly, don't go telling off your sister on my account) and said she gets it a lot. She's real pretty. She asked me about school and classes and what OSU is like. She said she was going to tell you soon, but if she hasn't yet then act surprised when she does: she said she wanted to transfer after a semester or two here in Tulsa. I can't remember what community college she mentioned but I definitely wrote it down while I was at work, so I'll look into the requirements for OSU when I get back to work next week. Maybe we can take her for a campus visit once you're back.

Do you think you'll go back to school? I know you took forever to graduate from Will Rogers—not saying it as a good or bad thing, just a fact. I think you'd like college better; you get to take fun classes just because and sometimes you get to read wacky things that would make anyone else blush. Or, well, sometimes I would blush. I think you'd have fun. Ponyboy's just finished up sophomore year, right? I hope he's telling you about the crazy things he should be getting up to_ (if anyone deserves it it's him)_ (I still can't believe I never managed to run into him while I was still in school. Funny). I mean, I'm not saying you have to go to school, but, well. I guess I'm just thinking about the future _(and where you'll be and if I'll be there with you)_ but that's what grown-up jobs will do to you, I guess!

I'm glad to think _(and scared)_ that this is one of the last letters I'll write to you. You'll be back before we know it.

I love you.

Marcia

* * *

July 1972

Two-Bit,

I don't know how you got away with writing that letter to me but boy, am I glad you did. We can do every last thing you wrote and then some once you get back. _(First thing I'll do to you is give you a ride in my backseat again)_ You know, I still don't think I was the type of girl to do all the things we did before you left even if us doing all of that clearly proves me wrong. I haven't had that many boyfriends, and I only ever shared a bed with two of them. _(Lately I'm thinking about you every night)_ You're something else, you know that? _(I'm so glad we found each other)_ I mean, clearly I'm no square (if you ignore my extensive collection of gingham and turtlenecks, I mean really, who have I become? You gotta hurry back and save me) but you make me more fun, I think. Like the best version of me, if that's possible.

I hope your friends like me. I know any one of them can pick you up from the bus station once it's time, but if you want I can come by too. Maybe take you to dinner? Are you staying with your ma once you're back? I don't know what you'll be in the mood for, that first day you get to Tulsa. It doesn't bother me that you haven't told me much about what it's like over there, but it might be nice to have an idea of what you'll need from me so that I can give it to you. _(I want to give you whatever you need.)_

Once you're settled we can start planning your twenty-fourth birthday party, I don't care if you think it's too late to celebrate. Even if it's just you and me at Dairy Queen we should celebrate. But I do want to plan a little something with your friends. I think that would be nice for all of us, even if they think I'm just a Socy girl (although, kids aren't really using that anymore! I haven't seen anyone slick their back the way you used to in ages, but I'm sure you noticed that before you left, too). I just wrote out 'kids' like I'm forty and not twenty-two. Sheesh.

I'm not sure what else to tell you in this letter. In a month you'll be back and I won't have to write you anymore _(maybe just love notes instead)_ and it feels a little odd. I have your birthday present (a real one, even if those pictures came out real nice) and I think you're going to love it. The weather here is finally real hot but_ (maybe not as hot as Nam)_ I think it's beautiful. I think you would, too. The city feels calm for the first time in a really long while, it seems like.

Anyway, I miss you. I'll talk to you soon. I love you.

Marcia


End file.
